Moving Forward, Looking Back
by idbeinthefollies
Summary: Maybe in order to move forward, you have to confront the past. Takes place five years after the end of season one. Ivy/Derek.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Smash.**

**Hello all. So I've been having some issues sorting out the plot in Preferring the Blonde and this just kind of came to me. It takes place five years after the end of season one. Rated T to be safe. I hope you enjoy. Reviews are always appreciated. **

* * *

Derek wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten roped into this. When he'd agreed to attend Lyle's birthday party he hadn't thought to anticipate the median age of the attendees. The room seemed to be populated nearly exclusively by twenty-something neophytes with stars in their eyes, a breed that he was indisposed to speak with, especially not in such a casual environment. He'd spent the better part of the evening defending himself from the barrage of recently graduated broadway wannabes, all insisting that they were the next big thing. It mystified him that someone as level headed as Lyle had managed to pick up this many hangers on, each more irritating than the last.

The latest one, a brunette whose name may or may not have been Lila was verbally going through her resume, her eyes pointed at the ceiling as she ticked off each job on her fingers. Pausing, she bit her lip, before asking if children's theatre counted. It was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Once upon a time she might have been a good lay, but he'd found his appetite for airheads dwindling in recent years. A side of effect of maturity, he supposed. He was, after all, just shy of his forty second birthday. It wasn't an disagreeable age, but it did place him on a bit of a precipice. The years were creeping by and there hadn't been much in the way of work lately. A few projects here and there, he'd even relocated to Europe for while, but he hadn't yet matched the success of his earlier career. He was still a good director, just one lacking significant inspiration.

The last worthwhile venture had been Bombshell, but even that hadn't lasted as long as he'd hoped. A year and a half, certainly a decent run in this economy, but nothing groundbreaking. The show's frantic pace and casting troubles had left it much less than it could have been. Karen Cartwright had done well as he knew she would, but there was only so much she could do with Rebecca's castoffs. There had been too many changes and not enough time to fix them.

In any case, they'd been bested at the Tonys by a ragtag bunch of up and comers, one of which had been Ivy, who'd defected from Bombshell soon after they'd opened in New York. He couldn't say he blamed her. He'd fired her twice, rather unfairly and without much explanation. To her credit she hadn't broken down, not even after he'd slept with Rebecca; an act he still wasn't sure how to justify. At the time, he had seen it as a purely professional venture. Work was Derek's priority. Ivy understood that. She was much the same way. Perhaps that's why they lasted as long as they did. He certainly hadn't had any intention of a continuing affair when they'd first slept together but theatre did that to you. Close proximity, artistic admiration, heightened emotions; it was a recipe for a romantic disaster. It hadn't been the first time he'd been privy to such a liaison. But it was the first that had persisted past the actress' firing. Usually the wronged party would take his refusal of their "talent" personally, saving him the trouble of actually breaking up, which suited Derek just fine. But he'd gone looking for Ivy, and when he'd expected her to leave, when any sane person would have left, she'd only gotten closer. Derek had always prided himself on his observational skills but Ivy had been unpredictable.

He'd gotten the idea that she would stay, pine for Marilyn a while longer. After all, even without Derek, she still had connections to the show; Tom, Julia, Sam. And he was well aware, guiltily aware, that she had wanted that part, slaved for it. But she'd surprised him again, upping and leaving barely a month into their broadway run, not giving him any time to try to repair whatever it was they'd had.

Maybe-Lila was staring at him expectantly now, and he realized that she must have asked him a question. He gave a non-comital nod which was apparently what she had been hoping for, because she flounced off a few seconds later, squealing happily as she pointed him out to her friends. Beyond caring what he had agreed to, he let out a small sigh of relief. But the feeling was short-lived. Another girl immediately filled the seat beside him, wide eyed, sporting a smile that showed one too many teeth.

"Heather." she said, one hand held out to shake his, the other tucking a strand of wavy hair behind her ear.

"Derek." he returned, ignoring her outstretched arm. And yet she remained undeterred.

"I saw Bombshell when it first came out. Marilyn's, like, my dream role." The conversation continued for several minutes; him nodding vaguely from time to time as she dissected the role, rather inaccurately but at least she was trying. She was a bit older than some of the others, probably around Lyle's age and slightly less annoying than her predecessors.

Suddenly, Heather's eyes opened wide, her mouth forming a comical 'O'. Derek turned, perplexed, following her line of vision until he too saw what she was looking at.

Ivy Lynn, still half in stage makeup, had just swept through the door, looking simultaneously exhausted and energetic, a phenomena unique to theatre.

Derek quickly averted his eyes. It wasn't that he was avoiding her, not exactly. Broadway was a small world in which they were both players so he wasn't unused to seeing her around. Parties were parties and connections were connections; neither was willing to give up a chance to network on the other's behalf so they had learned how to deal with the inevitable awkwardness that came with running into your ex. Sometimes it was merely a glimpse across the room, often an exchange of pleasantries, hands fisted around their latest (un)significant others as proof that they were doing just fine, even, or maybe especially, when they weren't. Lately though, they had taken to coming alone.

But this was different. Lyle hadn't invited more than two dozen people, and this group lacked the discretion of the circles they usually travelled in.

Her entrance was accompanied by murmurs, just as his had been only hours before. Although she had never reached the superstardom of her mother; she had been nominated for a Featured Actress Tony, which, in a room full of wannabe actors, meant a lot.

Leaning back, his hands behind his head, Derek braced himself as Lyle guided Ivy over towards him.

* * *

She knew he was going to be there. She'd known and she'd still come. Even with everything that had happened between them, even though she had the perfect excuse.

Part of it had been Lyle. Now just shy of twenty five, the child star had spent the last few years rejuvenating his broadway career and had proceeded to cast Ivy in several of his shows. So she really couldn't have said no, not that she'd wanted to. Proximity had pushed the already amicable pair into close friendship and she was unwilling to miss such a milestone birthday.

Maybe it was because she was lonely. Break ups and make ups were draining, and her recent relationships had been nothing but. Perhaps Derek was something that had never really been forgotten, merely deferred in the craziness of her post-Boston existence. Working two shows, a whirlwind romance with the leading man, a Tony nomination; she'd been too busy to think, let alone dwell. But the dust had settled now, work had grown a little scarce and she was left with time to spare.

Whatever the reason, she'd turned up, even though Lyle had made it quite clear that he would be inviting all his close friends, Derek included. They were both between shows right now, unlike Tom, Julia and Eileen, all of whom were in London opening the latest Huston-Levitt creation.

Looking around, Ivy saw all eyes were trained on her, some out of recognition, a few out peer pressure. It was an odd sensation, one she had thought she would enjoy more than she actually did. Fame, even in a scope as tiny as hers was, seemed to mock you when you had no means to uphold it.

Slowly, the room fell back into its original state, chatter filling the air. After all, they were New Yorkers, and New Yorkers were not taken in by celebrity. Still, Ivy could feel one eye on her at all times.

She sat down, her dress making the process even more awkward.

"Ivy." he said, without inflection, emotionless.

You look nice." he managed. She was overdressed and she knew it.

"Benefit." she explained. Actors would often lend their voices to concerts supporting a good cause. He nodded.

"I didn't know you were going to be here." he replied, habitually unintentional in his insensitivity. She grown used to it long ago although she felt sorry for the young actresses who had obviously been assaulting him before she had arrived. She doubted they'd been as understanding.

"Neither did I." And indeed she hadn't. She'd toyed with the idea of playing hooky even as she had knocked on the door. Just by being here, she was committing to a course of action, one that she knew wasn't entirely wise to take.

The conversation lulled. There was nothing but them, alone in a room full of staring strangers.

Ivy excused herself after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, leaving an open invitation for him to follow if he so wished. It was entirely his decision.

She stepped out onto a tiny little balcony overlooking the city. Lyle's place wasn't overtly large, not what you would expect of someone making as much money as he was. Ivy leaned against the railing, allowing the autumn air to fill her lungs. The weather was unseasonably cool for this time of year, enough to make her shiver, but the privacy was well worth the temperature. Derek had always believed theatrics belonged in the theatre. Not that they would be causing a scene, at least she hoped not.

Really, Ivy wasn't sure what to expect. It had been so long since they had last had a proper discussion, if they'd ever had one at all. She wouldn't pretend she could predict his behaviour. If she could, she never would have got in as deep as she had.

Still, she couldn't help but smile when a vodka soda landed in front of her a minute later. Her favourite.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked, his accent just a touch stronger than it had been before. He was nervous. Or maybe it was just a side effect of his return to England. She couldn't tell.

"Enjoying the peace and quiet?" she returned, gazing up at him. They hadn't been this close in years. Ivy studied his face in the dim lighting. A few more wrinkles here and there, frown lines deeper, hair peppered with just a little more grey. He was older but so was she.

"I don't know where he got them all. Twenty odd and not a single decent resume among them." he remarked, shaking his head lightly.

"He takes acting classes. To keep on top of things." she replied, examining the bottom of her glass.

"I think he finds them refreshing." she added. His face contorted in mild disgust.

"Irritating, more like." She let out a short laugh. He'd never been fond of children. She wasn't partial to them herself. Her mother had left her with a less than savoury impression of preforming parents.

"I used to be one of them." she commented, intending to lighten the mood.

"You were never that idiotic." he assured her.

And she hadn't been. Sure, there had been mistakes and missteps but she couldn't remember ever being quite so green. She'd grown up in the theatre world, been a veteran before she'd ever set foot in an audition room.

"No. I wasn't." she said, almost wistfully. Maybe life would have been a little easier if she had been like Karen; a midwestern girl with a dream. Archetypes might be cliche but at least there was a niche for a bubbly dumb blonde.

"You were very professional." he added.

There is was again. That word. Sacred to him, anathema to her. It meant sleek, polished, seasoned, competent. All very well and all very fitting, but what about passionate, entrancing, magnetic? It was stupid to obsess, she'd gone on to have a relatively successful career, but she couldn't help it.

_She just has something you don't. _

"Is that all?" she asked, looking over her shoulder.

He hesitated.

* * *

Derek had never been good with words. To verbalize something required a belief in what he was saying. He'd never been able to lie to Ivy, not properly anyway. It was merely a matter of her accepting his dishonesty, allowing them both to play at being in a healthy relationship. Truthful words spoken aloud, especially about emotions, were few and far between. But now she was putting him on the spot, expecting a response. Expecting him to gather whatever confusing things he may have felt, might still feel for her, and condense them into single utterance.

He was sweating and she wasn't moving, her eyes locked with his.

"You wanted it more." It didn't really answer her question but she softened a bit when he said it.

"That's true." she replied, half scoffing as she turned around to face him, her arms crossed over her chest. Silence ensued as she waited for him to continue.

"You loved it more." He wouldn't deny it. The Cartwright girl had been in it for the fame. She had certainly enjoyed performing and she'd been very good at it, but she wanted stardom. Fame-hungry, charismatic and out of her depth, she had personified Norma Jeane to a tee. Marilyn less so, but it was much easier to move forward than to move back. Anyone who had lived at all could tell you that.

Despite his verbiage, Derek had never associated dispassion with Ivy Lynn. Quite the opposite actually. Ivy lived her life in a heightened state of reality, an actor through and through, often at the expense of her personal life. Ivy was theatrical in every sense of the word, on and off stage, annoyingly so at times. But then there were the quieter moments, the odd sense of solemnity that surrounded her when she read through a script, or the way her eyes had flickered to her mother after every number in the workshop. There were layers there, a desperate loneliness hidden by a formidable strength. It was what had first intrigued him; the reason she'd gotten the part in the first place.

"But you weren't right for it." He paused, giving her time to argue but she didn't.

"Why?" she asked calmly.

"The truth." she added, quickly as if it was a second thought.

"You were always too grounded, too sure of yourself when you were playing her. There was no mystery, no enigma. That's what made Marilyn famous. Not skill, though she did have that, but the puzzle of her."

"You couldn't have told me that during the workshop?" she shot back, not missing a beat, though he noticed she didn't look particularly surprised. He thought it quite likely that she had already examined these shortcomings herself; she had just wanted to hear it from him. As if confirmation would make it all better.

"Would it have mattered?" he asked quietly. No response. She knew he was right. As much as she searched for acceptance, for recognition, she wouldn't have been willing to compromise the integrity of her character in order to mold to his vision. Headstrong, yes, but also intelligent. She had remained her version of Marilyn to the end, never attempting a Karen Cartwright impression even after it was clear which girl he partial to. Derek had always respected her for that.

"It certainly doesn't matter now." she finally said after about a minute of silence, not particularly convincing in her delivery although the sentiment was fundamentally true. They'd moved on, at least he'd thought they had. But in a way, little had changed. They were both living alone, both facing lulling careers. Life had a funny way of coming full circle.

And as for second chances, well, he hadn't had cause to believe in them. In theatre you had, or you had not. You were what he wanted, or you weren't. His penchant for sleeping with his leading ladies was borne out of this notion, but Ivy had never quite fit into this scheme, defying his opinions of women, especially actresses, on more than one occasion.

She had gone back to her previous position, leaned against the railing, her eyes concentrated on something on the horizon. Following her gaze, he found what she was looking at. A theatre, not too far in the distance, dark despite the fact most shows got out at around this time, with a half-stripped marquee hanging off it.

If he squinted he could make out the image strewn across the metal. A group of people dressed in twenties garb. At the forefront was a lanky redhead, giving him a toothy grin. Beside her, a blond gentlemen, equally happy. Then, a few steps behind the happy couple was Ivy Lynn, decked out in a blue flapper dress, a martini glass in one hand and a smirk on her face. Any other cast members, and he assumed there were more, had been ripped off, along with the title of the show.

Derek looked back to Ivy, who was looking away from him, tears rolling down her cheeks, completely independent to the rest of her face. If not for the slight smudging of her makeup he might not have noticed they were there. His hand went up instinctively, then jerked back. They had always been highly physical people, communicating best through actions. This was how they had started the first time and look where that had gotten them. But, contrary to popular belief, he didn't enjoy watching people, especially Ivy, cry. So he pulled her towards him, rather awkwardly, her head tucked under his chin.

* * *

It was idiotic, really. It wasn't as if it was her first broadway flop. It hadn't even been the worst. They'd had a decent run, four months if she was remembering correctly.

But the ending of that show had marked the first time in her career where Ivy had absolutely no idea where she was going. She'd always been a compulsive show jumper, finding work before the show she was in inevitably closed. It wasn't horribly difficult. She was talented, easy to work with and knew just about everybody there was to know. Even when the parts had started to dry up, she'd had the chorus to go back to when money was tight. Tom somehow always found a place for her. But you could only dance for so long and Ivy was well aware that, at thirty five, she was reaching her expiry date. Maybe two years more if she was lucky. Decades worth of injuries started adding up and all the physiotherapist could suggest was rest, and she couldn't very well do that, could she? Not if she wanted to keep a roof over her head.

To be perfectly honest, it was terrifying. And, in that moment, Ivy would have done anything to go back a few years, even if it meant being dragged through the mud all over again. Even if it meant having to contend with the little Iowan that could. Because, at the end of the day, nothing was harder to surmount than time.

Maybe that's why she did what she did.

They were already close together, her head pressed into his chest and his hand stroking her hair absentmindedly. It was just a matter of leaning up and pressing her lips to his. She pulled away a second later, neither angry nor pleased with herself, patiently waiting for his reaction.

At first, there was none. Then, he slowly turned his back to her, reaching for the handle and sliding the door open. Ivy felt her face reddening, a pit forming in the base of her stomach. What was it about him that made her humiliate herself again and again? Stupid to think he might still feel that way about her, if he'd ever felt that way at all. Averting her eyes, she whirled back around, looking anywhere but at him.

"Are you coming?" He was standing, one foot on either side of the screen, staring at her, his palm outstretched. Nodding, she took it and followed him inside. He quickly spotted Lyle, and made his way over to him. She watched as he whispered something into the boy's ear. The two men exchanged handshakes and then Derek was leaned against the wall nearest to the door, his arms crossed and his foot tapping soundlessly on the carpeted floor.

Somewhat dazedly, Ivy walked over to Lyle.

"I think I'm going to head out now. I'm dead tired, but we're still on for lunch later this week, right?" she said with a smile, feeling bad for ducking out on his party, especially having come late.

"Wouldn't miss it." he replied, although she could already see suspicion playing in his eyes.

"Happy Birthday." she told him, pulling him in for a hug before she and Derek made their escape.

The cab ride, which might once have been a chance for an extended make out session, was now rather calm. Short bits of dialogue were exchanged, mostly about mutual contacts, but all in all the conversation could have just as easily been between her and Sam. The only signifier that they were not merely two coworkers cutting costs after a late night was the set of intertwined hands lying on the middle seat.

The drive was shorter than Ivy would have liked, but it was just as well. If she'd had time to think, she might have stopped. He had offered his place, and she hadn't disagreed.

It surprised her when she learned that he had moved, though it probably shouldn't have. His new place was smaller, not miniscule like hers, but smaller. He handed her another drink, which she gratefully accepted, getting himself one as well.

Sitting down on the couch, that, along with the rest of his furniture, seemed to have made the trip from his old apartment, she looked around. The decor was much the same, a few additions here and there. A new chair, cushioned and bulky, and a couple more posters adorning the walls. Bombshell, she noticed, had been relegated to a secluded corner of the room, just beneath the stairs. She smiled a bit at that.

"What?" he asked, throwing himself down beside her, one arm wrapping around her shoulder in a way that should have been uncomfortable but wasn't.

"Nothing. Just admiring the new house." she said.

"Yes, well it's not ideal but finding a decent apartment in Manhattan is absolute murder." he replied.

"I like it. It's cozy." she explained, snuggling in a bit closer.

* * *

Derek pondered her comment for a moment. Though he loathed to admit it, he had grown fond of his latest living quarters. While his large penthouse might have been more suitable for a rich and famous director, this slightly smaller area was more conducive to actual work. Fewer places to lose his million sheets of paper, less space to have to lug his models. Besides, what had seem debonair when he was younger, had become outlandish, even uncomfortable. With five bedrooms to one person, the place had practically echoed. This was, if not cozy, than at least less lonely.

He gave a gruff half nod, which she seemed to accept as an answer.

"How was England?" she questioned, eyes shifting to her left as his fingers absentmindedly began drawing patterns across her pale skin.

"Cold. I didn't do much work, just a bit of regional theatre. I visited-" He cut himself off abruptly; he hadn't been planning to talk about that.

"Your family." she finished. They had never spoken about his parents, or hers for that matter. He knew she didn't get along with her mother. He didn't blame her, Leigh Conroy was a shrew of a woman. She similarly knew he wasn't on good terms with his folks. It was something they had agreed never to talk about for fear of upsetting the tenuous balance of their relationship. But now they weren't in a relationship, they weren't even definitively together.

"Yes." he managed. Her eyes, which had been shut, popped open at his answer. She hadn't been expecting a proper response.

"I've never been." she told him.

"My mom used to go but she never took me." she added, subtly enough that, had he been anyone else, he might not have noticed the trade off.

"That's a shame. There's so much to do there." he said, diverting the topic. The discussion quickly drifted towards West End shows and their opinions on them. The current subject of choice was the inclusion of the latest radio sensation in a new West End musical, an act he was for, and she was against.

"There are a thousand theatre actors who would have killed for that part and they give it to a pop star. God, it's like Rebecca Duvall all over again!" she announced, slamming her glass down on the table with more force than strictly necessary.

"The difference is that they knew she can sing." he remarked with an eye roll. What a godawful mess that had been.

"How did that happen anyway?" Ivy asked, as she lay back, tucking her legs up onto the couch.

"Miscommunication. General lunacy. The usual." She laughed. A moment passed.

"Derek." she said, looking up at him, suddenly solemn.

"This is a mistake." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for arguments.

"I know." And with that, she pulled herself onto his lap and kissed him. Mouths opening, arms circling, everything touching. Despite the time elapsed, it all felt strangely familiar, bodies remembering things minds had long since forgotten. There was certain element of safety to it although they both knew it was anything but.

She let out a small moan as his teeth grazed her jaw. He pulled her up onto her feet and half carried-half dragged her towards the nearest bedroom.

* * *

When Derek woke up the next morning he was alone, but the warmth of the spot next to him indicated Ivy couldn't be too far. Hearing the sound of water running he ventured out into the kitchen, putting a pot of coffee on as he waited for her to finish. She stumbled of the bathroom a few minutes later, her hair coiffed as best as she could manage with the aid of feminine hair products, and last night's dress clinging to her skin. Upon noticing him, her shoulders drooped a bit, giving him the impression that, while she hadn't gone out of her way to avoid him, she had probably hoped to sneak out before he woke up.

"Morning." he called out hesitantly.

"Hey." she replied, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Sure. Thanks." she said, accepting the mug and sipping it in a way distinct to someone who made a living off their voice, her lips gripping the brim, testing the temperature before letting any of the hot liquid pass into her mouth. When she finally brought the cup down to rest in her hands, there was a ring of pink lipstick circling the rim.

"I used your shampoo. I hope you don't mind." The words seemed distancing, such a formality. Strange to think that, at one time, their belongings had been nearly interchangeable. He shook his head. She cleared her throat, running her free hand through her hair.

"Anyway, I have to go. Audition in an hour. I'll be lucky if I get home in time to change clothes." she said. Perhaps she was lying but it hardly mattered; she would've left either way.

Setting the mug down, Ivy picked up her bags and walked over to him, pressing her lips to his cheek and letting them linger, probably longer than she'd intended.

Then she was gone.

He spent the remainder of the day removing evidence of her presence; the other set of glasses, the mascara stained pillow, the way he would with any other one night stand.

Except that this was Ivy and it wasn't quite so easy. Despite not being present during the first saga of Ivy and Derek, the house seemed to have taken a liking to her. Try as he might, the left cushion on the couch still smelled vaguely of her perfume and her lipstick persistently refused to be removed from the coffee mug.

Even the door seemed to be waiting for her to walk back through it.

And she would. But not just yet.


	2. Chapter 2

The posters were up all over town. Every couple of blocks there would be another, her face peering down at him, smiling brightly, eyes alight, mocking him. Twirling, girlish typeface announced the details of her performance: a one week engagement, forty dollars a ticket. In the corner, a tiny Tony statuette; never mind that she hadn't actually won. "An intimate evening with a broadway starlet" the poster advertised, a slogan that he, rather immaturely, found funny. He wondered if she'd come up with that herself. Probably. It sounded like her. Though she'd made acting her profession Ivy was more than a performer, she was a theatre savant and a shrewd one at that. He didn't doubt she'd be involved in her own publicity. Posing for the camera then rushing behind it, balancing on those ridiculous high heels and analyzing the pros and cons of each shot with the photographer; an old friend of course. The entire theatre community was.

And yet, despite that, he had never seen someone quite so lonely. For all her contacts and connections, her loyal co-workers, even Sam and Tom, she had still returned to him, however briefly. He who had bullied her, cheated on her and fired her. Sure, the intervening years had softened the blow but she had held none of the contempt he'd come to expect from an ex. In fact, she'd been the one that started it, kissing him both on the balcony and at his place.

And then she'd tried to sneak out. Because he'd been little more than a warm body, a friendly face in a room full of strangers. Because she didn't love him, possibly didn't even like him. Because she knew he was a jerk and she didn't have the energy to care anymore. She'd probably figured he would forget she was there five minutes after she left.

Except he hadn't. Two months later and here he was walking the streets of Manhattan and thinking about her. He shook his head, putting her out of his mind. Whatever her reasoning, Ivy had made it clear that they had been a fling, a strictly one night stand.

Shivering, Derek pulled his coat closer to his body and adjusted his scarf, beginning to regret his decision to walk home. But he'd been so eager to escape the studio where the casting of his latest project was taking place, he'd foregone a cab despite the piercing cold.

It wasn't that the auditioning hopefuls were bad per se, just wholly uninspiring. A list of names, an array of pictures that somehow all managed to look the same. Black and white for the most part, a few in color if the actor had been working a lot recently. Usually they'd be wearing a shade of blue because that's what photographed best. Heads always tilted slightly to the left. Smiles that worked very hard to look genuine. Hundreds of people who he may or may not have seen before. Names sometimes stuck out. Faces never did.

Still he went. Maybe because he still held out for that vain hope that he would find another Veronica Moore, another Karen Cartwright. Mostly because he had nothing better to do. He needed a hit. He needed a star. He needed to feel something besides this overwhelming boredom. So it was easy to convince himself that what he did next was a purely professional venture. He was looking for someone to reassure him that talent still existed on broadway. It just so happened that he had taken the long way home on the exact day her show was playing. A happy coincidence, so to speak.

He was late. The show had already started when he scuttled in, grabbing a chair in the back so as not to disturb anyone. She was in the middle of some old standard. A Meredith Wilson song he'd heard a few times when he'd auditioned My Fair Lady. Back in the days when revivals of the classics were still feasible, marketable even.

In the years since Bombshell, pop-flavoured jukebox musicals had become more and more popular. Shows featuring the works of the likes of Madonna, the Spice Girls. All in all, a thoroughly depressing job market brought on by an even more depressing economy. It wasn't so much that Derek disliked modern music. Visions of Karen clad in her sheet-dress tossing about on a spinning bed came to mind. But there was a fine line between edgy and teenybopper trash.

Ivy had always been old fashioned, a true blue broadway gypsy. Cole Porter, Jule Styne, Stephen Sondheim, LaChuisa, Shaiman and Whitman, Houston and Levitt. That was what she was good at.

The music her mother sang, he thought cynically. Life was a cruel that way. Maybe in a different time, she would have rivalled Leigh Conroy. Rocketed to superstardom in the way she had been waiting for all these years. But as things were, she was misplaced. Someone from a different era. The wrong era. No wonder she had difficulty finding work.

Even now she seemed like a ghost. Pale, the spotlight illuminating, she appeared almost ethereal as she basked in the applause, glowing with satisfaction. Not looking over her shoulder, not second guessing herself. Just pure, unbridled joy. In all the time they known each other, he had never really seen her like this. It struck him how very sad that was.

* * *

Onstage it was easy to smile. The crowd cheering, their faces beaming up at her. Making her forget that she was out of a job next week with no future prospects in sight. It didn't matter. Maybe the offers weren't pouring in, but the public, her fans, they still wanted her. The room looked full, though the dim lighting made it difficult to distinguish individual faces. A sold out performance would be good enough for now. With her luck, she'd learned to take the small victories.

Plucking the microphone from its stand, she waited as the applause died down and the room quieted.

"Sorry to all the teenagers in the room, but this next one is another oldie." she said, winking nervously. The art of speaking directly to an audience, not as a character, but as Ivy Lynn, still somewhat alluded her. They tittered sympathetically. It made her feel a little better.

"Second Hand White Baby Grand from Bombshell." A moment passed. Silence. She didn't know what she'd been expecting. To most of the crowd, it was just another song from a show that had been closed for years. More than half a decade down the line, no one remembered that it had been Ivy who had done the original workshop. Show business did not have a long memory, especially not for mediocrity. Maybe a few of them had scrolled through a list of her credits on BroadwayWorld or Playbill, seen that she had been in the ensemble, even had a featured song on the cast recording. But no one would ever hear about that first time she'd nailed Let's Be Bad or those few minutes when this song had been hers and only hers. They wouldn't know about the day her voice gave out or her drug induced tumble at Heaven On Earth. The hell she had gone through all in the name of art. To the rest of the world Karen Cartwright was Marilyn. It was almost like none of it had ever happened. Performances only lasted as long as they lasted. And then they were gone, memories of a choice few people. The tragedy of theatre but also the beauty.

There was a smattering of applause as the opening chords rang out and Ivy brought the microphone up to her mouth and began to sing.

Even today, it retained its poignancy. The years hadn't softened her relationship with Leigh, nor had they changed the fact that casting directors were still turning her away, always with some excuse. She was too old to play the ingenue. Too young to play the mom. Too classic for pop. Not classic enough for opera. Oddly enough, rejection never stopped hurting. If anything it hurt more now that she'd had a taste of real success.

Determination had turned to desperation and it gave the song a whole new flavor. She'd toyed with the arrangement, slowed it down a bit, changed the key. Not because the original didn't suit her. Tom had made it quite clear he'd written the song for her, going to so far as to admit it shortly after Rebecca had got the song handed over to Karen and her "rock star voice." At the time, it had been perfect. For Marilyn. But there was no pretense now. There was only her. The notes resonated in her chest, deeper and smoother now that she wasn't forcing them light and breathy. The simple melody transforming into something slightly foreign.

Her performance provoked a warm reaction from the audience, nothing abnormal. More enthusiastic than they had been for her last song but only marginally so. She smiled and made a little bow, her mind already on the next piece.

And then she saw it. A figure, tall and lean, brushing past the wall, jostling people in a mad dash for the door. The concert hall, if you could even call it that, wasn't big and even from here she could make out the distinct mutterings of an angry Brit attempting to make a graceful exit and failing miserably.

"Derek?" She hadn't intended to say it aloud, let alone into the microphone, but there it was, out in the open. He turned to face her, along with the rest of the audience, and their eyes met for a brief moment. Hers confused but relatively calm, his wide and terror-filled. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. And he pushed the door open and disappeared through it, footsteps echoing at a pace that indicated somewhere between a jog and a run.

"Sorry." she said, tossing her hair and widening her smile, trying to make light of it all.

"We used to work together. Didn't think he would make it. Schedules jammed packed, you know? Guess he had somewhere to be." She laughed awkwardly, hoping no one would notice that she had yet to string together a proper sentence.

Blessedly, everyone seemed to accept this response and she was able to gloss over his departure with relative ease. Still, the lingering question of what he had been doing there and more importantly, why he had left lay in the back of her mind for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Derek sat in a coffee shop a few blocks from the theatre contemplating his own idiocy. He had escaped but just barely. And she knew he'd been there. That hadn't been part of the plan. He was supposed to go in, watch her show, then leave. Simple three step process. If it hadn't been for that damn song it would have worked.

For all his calculated plots Derek was a remarkably visceral person. He believed himself reasonably intellectual, logic over lust, a professional. But in truth he was driven by instincts more than he would like people to know. Karen Cartwright came to mind. She'd been a benefactor of his unpredictability, Ivy the victim. Which is why he hadn't anticipated having any reaction to seeing her perform. He knew Ivy was good, occasionally fantastic. But in his mind she'd always been the safe choice and you didn't become a star by playing it safe. He'd told her that and he considered it the truth.

But tonight he had looked on, not as a director, not as a would-be boyfriend but as an only slightly less than impartial audience member and he had been mesmerized.

It had been some mixture of past and present combining. A dual vision of the same moment. Part of him had gone back to the first time he'd heard her sing it. Not in the rehearsal hall, after she'd managed to wrestle the song from Karen like everyone had thought, but in his apartment just a mere few hours after he'd given her solo away. Curiously, she hadn't been angry at him for that, or at the very least she'd been madder at Rebecca.

They'd been sitting downstairs, he on the couch sifting through the book while she sat at the piano, occasionally playing back songs for him when he asked, more often singing Marilyn's part. Eventually she'd come to Second Hand White Baby Grand. She'd stumbled through it a few times, fingers fumbling as she sight read the accompaniment. Then she'd taken out a notebook and begun scribbling notes, sometimes pausing to try something out. It was long process, taking more than an hour to complete. He was surprised she'd done it in his presence; her work was sacred to her and she never allowed herself to be anything but excellent. Slowly, the song began to take form. Tentative at first and then more confident as she eased into character; her voice changing, her posture shifting. And he'd felt like he was watching something important unfold before his eyes.

She'd been wearing what she usually wore at his house: lingerie. This time a dark blue nightgown with one of his shirts overtop of it because she had been cold and he'd offered. Her hair had been tied up in a messy bun and most of her makeup rubbed off, revealing a light dusting of freckles around her nose making her appear younger, more fragile. Her eyebrows furrowed a little as she played through a difficult key change but she recovered quickly. The worlds didn't roll of her tongue so much as tip-toed. Somehow the uncertainty made it all that much better. She'd always been so entrenched in her own interpretation, so sure of her choices. But for those brief few moments, she seemed completely vulnerable, trying so very hard to be perfect.

After she'd finished she'd stood up, grabbed them both a drink and flopped down next to him, offering to help him with the dance break she knew had been giving him trouble. Then, when they couldn't fix it and he'd been practically ripping his hair out in frustration, she'd just smiled, kissed him hard on the mouth and pulled him towards one of the many bedrooms.

He'd never said anything but that day, he'd thought he maybe might possibly love her.

The memory remained intact, kept somewhat reverently in the nether reaches of his mind. He preferred to ignore the fact that she was more than that one moment where she'd been everything that he wanted, both as a Marilyn and as a girlfriend. Perhaps that was why they had fallen apart so quickly after that. She could never live up to the standard she had set for herself.

Watching her sing it today had been a completely different experience. For one, they were both older. Age always changed things. Secondly, they weren't in anything resembling a relationship. She hadn't even been aware that he was watching. And lastly, and most interestingly, she was Ivy. Not Marilyn. And Ivy Lynn was a hundred times more real than her Marilyn could ever be. Because Marilyn was a character. Ivy was a person. Flesh and blood. A person whose feelings and motivations could not be neatly divided into little boxes to be repackaged for an audience. A person who understood more about characters than she did about herself. Infinitely more complex than the characters she played.

It was odd. He'd acknowledged the fact that she was messed up and full of contradictions but it didn't stop him from feeling something. Maybe that he still cared for her, broken and all.

The thought scared him. But not as much as he'd hoped it would.

* * *

It sat there on her counter; innocuous, inconspicuous. A box of tea, easily mixed in with a thousand others. When she'd found it outside her dressing room, she'd not given it a second thought. Between her friends and her fans, it wasn't all that unusual to receive a little something. She'd just tucked it into her purse and continued on home, making a mental note to send a thank you letter when she got the time. It was only when she'd dipped her hand into the little cardboard container a few days later that she found the tiny piece of paper among the tea bags.

The note was crumpled slightly, the edges showing evidence of tearing. Something fished out at the last second on impulse. His handwriting in various states of messiness. She'd read the message over and over.

_You were stunning. _

Not professional. Not experienced. Not even a simple great, which she would have taken for the high praise it was. He'd called her stunning.

It didn't make up for what had happened. She doubted anything really would. Still, it was something. More than she'd ever hoped to hear from him. Or, at least, more than she'd allowed herself to expect. But it was what was beneath that was really surprising, smudged, as if it had been erased and rewritten several times.

_Sorry._

Derek Wills didn't apologize. Not to her. He was slow to admit mistakes and slower to repent for them, instead electing to justify them until even he wasn't sure who was in the wrong. The rare time he did offer his condolences, it was more an expression of guilt than actual regret. So why was he now waving the proverbial white flag of surrender and admitting defeat? Of all the awful things he'd done, leaving her concert had been among the most minimal. It didn't make sense, not from the Derek she knew.

Then, tucked in the corner, in lieu of a signature, a sequence of numbers ten digits long. She scanned them without really seeing. This was more like him. Blindly expecting a few choice words of flattery to send her crawling back to him. Withholding approval until he needed her.

Except there was nothing to suggest he needed her now. When she'd last seen him, he'd seemed fine. Perhaps a little more reserved, a little more detached but nothing big enough to have him scurrying to her. Not after five years. And she trusted if anything had happened in regards to his career, she would know.

No, Derek didn't need her at all. But he wanted her. And that just might be better.

Ivy took her phone out, her fingers swiping swiftly across the keypad, filling in his name and address when prompted before finally opening a message and sending it before she had too much time to think.

_Thank you. _

* * *

**A/N: Thanks everyone for all the reviews and follows. I know that this chapter was a bit slower but I need it to set up Ivy and Derek's relationship and the rest of the story. I hope you weren't too bored. Obviously, I've decided to make this a multi-chapter fic. I don't know how often I'll be able to update but I do have the next chapter or two planned out so hopefully it'll be fairly soon. Thanks for reading. If you have some time, I'd love to hear what you think.**


	3. Chapter 3

There was really no telling what was going to happen.

It had always been difficult. Just being who they were had guaranteed that. Maybe if they had met under different circumstances. But even then he was still him and she was still her and she'd convinced herself it would have ended badly either way. There had always been a sense of inevitability to their breakup. No one had expected them to last. And they hadn't. Predictability at its finest. She wouldn't be surprised if Bobby and Jessica had taken bets out on it.

But that was then and this was now. There were no titles to hide behind. No patterns to follow.

Before, she'd gone in with eyes wide open. Derek was her director. Derek was a womanizer. Derek was an ass. Derek was a terrible human being. Tom had made sure she understood and she'd prepared herself accordingly. Didn't ask for much because she knew she wouldn't get it. Gave him outs so he knew she wouldn't get clingy. Didn't bother him with her personal problems because she knew he wouldn't care. The perfect casual girlfriend, at least for a little while.

But you could only keep up a charade for so long. Little things had started slipping through. Insecurity, pill problems, family issues. They didn't talk about it. They didn't really talk about anything besides the show, but she knew who she was and so did he.

Which is why his asking her here made so little sense. Relationships were easy to start. At the beginning, everyone was the same. A two-dimensional cardboard cutout that was nice to look at and spoke only in fill in the blanks.

_My name is __________. I am a _______. I like to _______.

Then slowly those four word sentences started to form a living, breathing person. And when you didn't like what you saw, you broke it off and moved on.

You didn't text your ex-girlfriend half a decade down the line offering up dinner and tickets to a show.

Yet it had happened and she, despite her better judgment, had said yes. If only because it meant getting to see a sold out (not to mention hideously expensive) broadway show.

She'd convinced herself that was why he had invited her. She'd mentioned trying to get tickets to the new Collins-Bishop musical in a message a few days ago.

Since the week of her concert, they'd been texting back and forth. Mostly inconsequential things. Little anecdotes, work related rants. It was odd to think of what they had as friendship given their history, but if the shoe fit. That's what this was. A friendly night out between two colleagues. Nothing to ashamed of. Nothing that would arouse suspicion.

Ivy glanced around the ticket vestibule, shivering as the door opened letting another gust of wind into the already chilly room. Without Derek, she didn't have her ticket and couldn't get into the theatre. Not that she really wanted to. The show had barely been open a week, meaning the audiences were still predominantly industry people. People that Ivy knew. People that could easily report back to Tom. He'd still been in London when someone, presumably Sam, had told him about Derek's little appearance at her concert. Although she had been the recipient of a rather angry phone call, Tom had only been able to do so much damage from three thousand miles away. Now he was home and Ivy didn't want to think about what his reaction would be if he caught her in this rather compromising position.

Except this wasn't a date, she reminded herself.

The door swung open again, this time revealing the lanky form of a snow-covered Derek Wills. She made her way over as he dusted himself off.

"Derek, hi." she managed awkwardly. They compartment was deserted but for the two of them; a blessing and a curse. He held out her ticket, muttering a greeting as he unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and shrugged off his coat.

"Thanks." she said, plucking the paper from his hand. They walked into the lobby in silence, nearly a foot of distance between them. Ivy took a seat, perching on the edge of one of the couches. Her arms were crossed over her chest protectively.

"Are you okay?" he asked, remaining standing despite the empty chairs around her. She'd chosen the colder area of the theatre specifically for its privacy.

"Fine." she replied reflexively, draping her thin jacket across her shoulders.

His arm stretched out, his own warmer, more practical coat slung around it, before quickly pulling back.

She wouldn't take it and he knew that, so he didn't offer and she didn't lie.

* * *

He hadn't intended this to be a date. But he was also aware he hadn't specifically stated the opposite either.

On some level, it bothered him that she was this uncomfortable. That he was this uncomfortable. Even when she'd hated him in those months between Boston and opening night, they'd never been this lost. Ivy didn't do the silent treatment. She would change the subject, avoid the question, lecture, occasionally flat-out yell, but she'd never just stopped talking. She was an actress; it just wasn't within her nature. There'd always been something to discuss.

Only that was when they'd had the show to worry about. When there'd been something at stake, something apart from the broken pieces of an exceedingly dysfunctional relationship. Without Bombshell, without theatre, what were they?

He'd had an express purpose in coming here tonight, but he'd hoped to smuggle it in under the guise of a personal interaction. It was just now that he was realizing that, with them, personal was mostly sex and pain, neither of which were particularly good fodder for a casual evening between exes.

Derek sighed; he'd been hoping it wouldn't come to this. He stood up straighter, crossing his arms and leaning forward, his head dipping slightly so he could meet her eyes.

"Don't worry. It's not a date." he said, his tone brisk and matter of fact. Her shoulders drooped, her lungs finally releasing the breath she'd been holding.

"Okay." she replied, her tone betraying nothing. But when she looked back up at him, he could see she was more relaxed. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her phone and glanced at the time.

"We should probably head in." she said, tilting her head towards the theatre doors, a small smile gracing her face. He watched as she turned away, walking across the lobby with a sort of calm efficiency. Frowning, he followed, a queer sort of disappointment twisting its way through his gut.

* * *

They had only just arrived at the restaurant, a friendly, little Italian place, when he produced it from the lining of his jacket. The paper dropped soundlessly to the table. Ivy looked at him questioningly. He, in turn, shoved the paper closer, giving his head an upward shake; a gesture which implored her to take a closer look. Tossing the menu aside, she picked up his offering: her resume.

It was the most recent incarnation; she'd only sent it to her agent a week or so before. Ivy bit her lip. When he'd given her confirmation that he had no romantic intentions, she'd figured his invitation was platonic and she'd been glad. It hadn't occurred to her that he might be here on business.

Years ago, just after she'd been nominated for the Tony, she'd sat down with her manager and her agent and told them in no uncertain terms that they were not to send her out for anything involving Derek Wills. She'd still been mad at him at that point and, with a couple offers on the table, she'd figured it would be easy enough to avoid him. Eventually, times had gotten a bit leaner, jobs harder to come by. Still she'd resisted, insisting that her personal sanity was more important to her than her career; a sentiment that should have been truer than it was. But she knew her team was growing a bit restless and she wouldn't put it past them to slip this one by her. Especially not with the rumors concerning her and Derek that had been making the rounds lately.

"Did Brian send this over?" she asked, handing it back to Derek, her voice weary. He nodded, tucking the photograph back into his pocket.

"I didn't know about it." she added.

"I thought as much." he replied. She glanced up at him, looking for any sign that he might feel one way or another about working with her, but his face remained as impassive as ever.

"I won't call you in if you don't want to come." he said, seemingly untroubled, as he leaned back on his hands.

He liked to do this to her. Hand her the reins, let her make important personal decisions. He questioned, she answered. It had always been that way. It wasn't that she'd never been curious about him. She'd just never thought he'd let her get close. But there was nothing to lose now. She'd played the fool once, she wasn't going to do it again. If she did this, if she even tried to do this, she was going to know exactly what it was she was getting into.

"Do you want me to come?"

* * *

If he knew, did she think he would have asked?

He'd had it for a week already and he was still no closer to making his choice. Hours upon hours of deliberation; the pros of this, the cons of that.

She wasn't even particularly right for the part. Celeste was supposed to be fun, carefree and quirky; Ivy was good enough actress to pull it off but she lacked the youthful innocence the character called for. The music too was more contemporary, borderline pop in some places. An ill-suited match to Ivy's classic broadway belt.

Still, she did have a habit of surprising him. There had been isolated moments of brilliance. That first rehearsal, Let's Be Bad, Second Hand; those few seconds when Ivy stopped being the technically proficient but not much else chorus girl and became Marilyn Monroe, in the flesh. Moments that didn't change anything until they did and he'd spent the past few days seriously considering miscasting her just to see what she would do.

"I..." he began, finding it more and more difficult to feign indifference. She looked at him expectantly, apparently amused by his confusion.

"There would be no guarantees you would get it." he finally managed. The change was immediate. Her eyes dropped to the floor and she sighed heavily. Then she was grabbing her bag, pushing her chair away from the table and standing up.

"Where are you..." he asked, rising to his feet, putting his arm out to catch her as she tried to leave.

"Derek, if you think I'd want special treatment, then we really aren't ready to work together again." she replied, removing his hand from her shoulder.

"If there's nothing else." she said, sidestepping him and making her way to the door.

"Ivy." he called out, loud enough that the other restaurant patrons turned to face him. Slowly she returned, staring him down, her jaw tense and her words curt.

"What do you want Derek?" He took a ragged breath, his fingers pushing through his hair.

"I want you to audition." he announced. She looked at him, shocked, one eyebrow raised and her mouth slightly agape.

"You're sure about this?" she asked. He wasn't. Not by a long shot. But he nodded anyway.

"If you want to, yes." he replied, keeping his demeanor as businesslike as possible.

Perhaps he was panicking over nothing. It was one audition. They, two self-proclaimed professionals, could get through fifteen minutes, couldn't they? Except that once the door was open, neither of them would be able to close it. There would be a second audition, a third. Eventually she would be the right fit for something. Eventually they would have to work together.

For a moment, she almost looked as if she would say no and save them both. But then she shook her head and pasted on a grin.

"I want to." she said with such buoyancy that he almost believed her. Pulling out her chair, she sat down once again as she picked up the wine list and studied it as if she hadn't just made a potentially life altering decision. Derek took his seat too, watching as she stared ahead, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. She noticed his gaze almost immediately and adjusted her facial expression, doing a very good impression of unconcerned happiness. Leaning forward, she set her elbows on the table and folded her hands on top of one another.

"So, tell me about this show."

Derek prattled on for a while, well aware that she wasn't paying him any attention. Anyone but her and he would have been offended. Then again, anyone but him and she would have been listening intently, deducing exactly how best she could increase her chances of landing the role. Instead she was having an internal debate, trying to justify what had just happened. She wouldn't be able to, not anymore than he could. But they were both too stubborn to back down.

She didn't even notice when he stopped talking. She just looked at him with wide eyes, more vulnerable than he had seen her all evening.

"It wasn't so bad last time, was it." It was a statement, not a question.

Derek was silent. He wondered if she knew that Tom had told him.

It had happened right after she'd quit Bombshell. Tom had come storming into Derek's apartment in a whirl of aggression that was uncharacteristic even for the drama queen composer. At first he'd yelled. But then his voice had dropped into an uncomfortable half whisper as he'd explained. Told Derek how he'd found Ivy backstage after Karen's first preview with a fistful of pills clutched in her hand. Said she'd sworn she wasn't going to take them, but the way Tom had looked at him in that moment had made Derek's stomach turn. He hadn't slept for weeks afterwards.

"Ivy, it wasn't worth it." If she had done it nothing else would have mattered. Not Bombshell, not Marilyn, certainly not Karen. Not to him. Not to anyone. She had to know that, didn't she? _Art wasn't therapy. The more you hurt the better._ Sometimes it scared him how alike they could be.

Her eyes were brimming with tears but she quickly swallowed them.

"No. It wasn't." she agreed. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

"Do you still want to audition?" he asked tentatively, unsure of what answer he wanted.

There was no hesitation this time.

"Yes."

* * *

**I am literally the worst for taking this long to update. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. I must have rewritten it six or seven times and it's still shorter than the other two. Anyway, sorry about the delay and I will try to do better next time. Thanks so much for reading. Any and all reviews are greatly appreciated. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I can't even begin to describe how much Smash is infuriating me right now. So here's my little alternate reality. I hope you enjoy. Any and all reviews are appreciated. **

* * *

They'd been there for as long as she could remember. Little pieces of paper that turned into little pills that turned into little stars dancing in front of your eyes as you fell face first in front of a gobsmacked audience. First a comfort, then a reminder and now little more than a fact of life. She'd never made a habit of frequenting the pharmacy, not even before Bombshell, but she was a dancer. Injuries, and pain, were inevitable. Usually it would be over the counter; a few aspirin before an audition, just to take the edge off.

There'd been one time, about a year before she'd gotten Heaven on Earth. A set piece and a wonky turn and a trip to the hospital she couldn't afford. She'd been mostly lucky, it was a superficial injury that hurt like hell but healed fast. A couple of weeks on percocet and it was like it had never happened. Except it had and these things added up.

Then it was Bombshell and prednisone and ambien and whatever else she'd been on. But that too had passed quickly. Painfully, nearly lethally, but quickly. She'd quit cold turkey after that. It wasn't too hard. Life had gotten better. She hadn't needed the relief anymore.

Until now.

It had been a gradual change. At first, it was barely noticable. As long as she didn't move to fast, didn't kick too high. Her dancing had suffered but she could have lived with that. But the pain got sharper; started lasting longer. So she'd gone to see a doctor. He'd told her to rest. Gave her prescriptions for medicine she never took. Eventually, it just became a part of her life. A dull ache that wouldn't go away. It was amazing what you could learn to live with.

But tonight had been different. One second she was fine, or close enough that it didn't matter, and the next her leg was on fire and she couldn't see, couldn't breathe. She'd missed bows. That hadn't happened since...

It had been nearly an hour since she'd gotten home and she still hadn't moved a muscle. She sat on her bed, peering into her purse as pain radiated through her left knee. Her fingers closed in around one almost instantly. A piece of white paper, an illegible signature scribbled across the bottom. She pulled it out, heart pounding, her vision blurry and her jaw clenched.

_It wasn't worth it. _

Maybe he knew and maybe he didn't. Either way she knew what she had to do. She ripped it in half, then quarters. Slowly. Methodically. She took out another. And another. And another.

Drugs weren't an option. They couldn't be.

She could take a few months off. It would be tough financially, but it was possible. Except it was a few more months gone. A few months for people to forget her name. A few months without a show to distract her.

One day, she'd be sitting at home, watching bad reality TV and fretting over her bills and her mother would call and tell her again that there was a job opening up at her old dance studio. She wouldn't agree, not at first, but eventually Leigh would wear her down. And a few months would turn into a few years and she'd be stuck. It wasn't hard to picture it happening and that terrified her.

But she couldn't stay where she was either. Tonight had proven that the rigours of being in a broadway ensemble were more than her body was able to handle.

The idea came to her faster than she'd have liked to admit.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

* * *

The clock struck one and he groaned.

He'd managed to talk Scott into giving him another day but even Derek Wills could only stall for so long. In less than twenty-four hours he would have to make a decision.

It should be simple. Three girls. One role. He had plenty of information.

First there was Heather Cagney. Her headshot lay on the table in front of him. 24 years old. Mezzo soprano. Lyle's friend. She was pretty; tall with green eyes and blonde hair. Lisa, the book writer, wanted her but she was Derek's least favorite among the remaining candidates. It wasn't that she was bad. She was actually quite good, and she had the potential to become great. He just didn't have the time or patience anymore.

Besides, it would feel wrong to choose her over Ivy. She reminded him too much of Karen at that age; all boundless energy and raw talent in need of cultivation. It was always the same with her type. Tender touches and shy smiles and eyes alight with excitement. "_I'm your muse." _she would say, and you'd let her even though you thought the term was idiotic because she was special. You'd fall in love with each other in a way only a director and his star could. But eventually you'd outlive your usefulness and she'd kiss you on the cheek, tell you what a wonderful help you'd been, and then ride off into the sunset with some composer she met in Brooklyn. And you'd be left with this empty feeling, wondering if she ever liked you at all.

Derek pushed the girl's picture away from him and turned towards the next.

From a technical standpoint, Elise MacIntyre was the strongest choice. Right age, right range, right type. A fiery red-head with a strong belt. She came highly recommended, having spent the past five years doing bit parts and understudy work in the West End. She wasn't the best actress but the role didn't call for anything incredibly difficult and anyway, they could replace her if they ever got past the workshop stage. The composer/lyricist, a twitchy young man by the name of Jeffrey was partial to her.

And then there was Ivy. Her audition had been great. She'd surprised him, like she always did, taking little beats that he hadn't thought of, adding an emotional undertone to the songs in a way her younger counterparts weren't capable of. It didn't change the fact that she was probably six or seven years too old for Celeste or that she voice was still a shade too classical, but it was certainly enough to give him pause. With Marilyn, she'd been the obvious choice, the safe choice. But this time, she was the risk. Because she didn't need him and that was unprecedented.

She would fight back in a way the others wouldn't dare. Because she knew him and she knew theatre, and she could be just as pig-headed as him when it came to artistic decisions. He wouldn't be able to blindly order her around like he did all his other leading ladies. She wasn't a prop, she was a person. He wouldn't pretend to see her as anything else. They had too much history for that.

It would inevitably be more of a collaborative process. At one time, the very thought would have had him shoving her headshot in the pile with the other rejects, but now he found himself picking it up and studying it more closely. It was easy to run the show when you had a vision, hallucinatory or otherwise. People were just a means to an end. It was when you didn't know, when you were taking shots in the dark, that you wanted someone around that could help you. Someone like Ivy.

He could almost convince himself that he wasn't being selfish, that it was all for the good of the show. Scott wanted her too and he was the producer. It was his money on the line. His vote could probably outweigh them all no matter who Derek threw his support behind. It was a business decision, to get the people in charge on his side. It was an effort to garner some good press. It was anything besides what it actually was. If he didn't think too much, he could believe it.

Derek was picking up his phone to call Scott when the doorbell rang. Peering through the peephole, he saw the familiar outline of Ivy Lynn, her expression an odd mixture of melancholy and determination.

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

It wouldn't work. Even if she'd really wanted it to, it wouldn't. He didn't cast people because they slept with him. He slept with people because he cast them.

So maybe this was a test. If she did have the job, they would. If she didn't, then it wouldn't matter that she was standing at his door in the middle of the night. Except it wasn't that simple, because he liked her and she liked him and, despite everything, it had always been that way.

He ushered her in without a word. For a moment, they just stared at one another. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, his brow furrowed. Ivy twitched uncomfortably as he scrutinized her every move. He hadn't looked at her like this in years. Not since Bombshell had still been Marilyn. Not since she had still been Marilyn. It wasn't sexual. It was barely even human. He was looking at her in the same way he looked at the pages of a script. In a strange way, it was flattering. Ivy stood up a little straighter, subconsciously adjusting her posture to take the pressure off her bad leg.

She knew it was a mistake the moment she did it. Within seconds, she could feel his gaze shift. First to her knee, visibly swollen even through her dance pants, then down to her feet and their conspicuous lack of heels. Finally, it landed on her face and his eyes met her own. And she suddenly felt utterly defeated. It should never have come to this.

This wasn't about talent. It wasn't even about sex. This was pity. She couldn't take that. Not from him.

Without the extra height, kissing him was a bit of a task but she managed. Once her arms were wrapped around his neck, he clued in and helped her by leaning down. Their mouths met somewhere in the middle and she tugged him in closer. When she pulled away, it was no longer pity she saw reflected in his eyes. She'd thought it would make her feel better but it didn't. Safer maybe, but not better.

Slowly, lust gave way to confusion. But before he could form a sentence, Ivy smirked, quirked an eyebrow and asked,

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" She didn't wait for a response. Leaving him behind, she stalked into the living room, gritting her teeth and allowing her gait to betray no trace of weakness. Situating herself on the couch, she waited for him to catch up. Eventually he appeared, carrying two drinks with him. He held hers out to her before drawing it back a few inches at the last second, his eyes on her leg again.

Glaring at him, she plucked the glass from his hands and drained the whole thing in one go. If she was going to do this, she would rather not be sober. She twisted her head around, trying to determine if she could make it to the kitchen and back without risking further injury. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort, she turned back only to find Derek's hand outstretched once again; this time offering her his drink.

They sat in silence as she sipped, the buzz starting to kick in as she handed him back the empty glass. He placed it on the coffee table, sighing as he did, and saying,

"Ivy, what are you doing here?" It threw her for a moment. She hadn't been expecting him to ask. There was no reason for him to. This was Derek Wills. He would take what was available to him, just like he always had before. She shot him a sardonic smile.

"I thought it was obvious." she quipped.

"I'm being professional."

* * *

There had been rumors the first time around. She'd seduced him and that's why he'd given her the part. He'd taken advantage of the situation; promised her the world and then took it away. Neither were true. It was mutual love for the work that had brought them together. It was the same dedication that had pulled them apart. Karen, Rebecca; it had all been for the good of the show. If anyone could understand that, it would be her.

_You and I are professionals. That's why we do well together. _

Now here she was using his own words against him. Using him like she thought he'd used her. And he was letting her.

She was facing forward now, her hands clasped and her head bowed. Being here wasn't a choice. Not in her mind. She'd wanted Marilyn. She needed Celeste.

Every thirty seconds or so he could see her glance over, her head tilting ever so slightly towards him, then abruptly returning to its former position. Minutes past and still she remained unmoving, biting her lip as she tried to work up the nerve. No matter what anyone else thought, this wasn't how she usually operated.

He, on the other hand, had quite a lot of experience with this sort of thing. Midnight trysts with young girls with stars in their eyes. It wasn't who she was but it was who she was trying to be, and he could help her along.

"Ivy." She turned to face him, her back stiff and her eyes narrowed, expecting another question she couldn't answer. He made a gesture and she moved closer. She knew what was going to happen now, he was sure of it. But where there once had been playful desire, there was now only a sad sort of resignment.

And then he was pressing his lips to hers. He pulled back almost immediately, looking at her and gauging her reaction. She didn't look surprised, just relieved. Derek let out the breath he'd been holding and she smiled, just a twitch of her mouth but it gave him the courage to do it again, this time allowing his lips to linger. Suddenly, he was on top of her and things were going fine until they weren't and she was on the other side of the couch, doubled over in pain.

"I'm fine." she called out breathlessly.

"You're not." he returned simply, keeping his distance. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, collecting herself.

"It's been getting worse for months." she told him slowly. Dragging one pant leg up, she showed him her knee. It was swollen. Not horribly so; it was probably just strain or maybe a sprain but it was enough to keep her off her feet for a few weeks. Longer if she wanted to make sure it was totally healed.

"You've gotten it checked out?" he asked.

"Nothing they can do." she confirmed, sighing heavily as she replaced her clothing. There was a moment of silence and then she was talking again, uncomfortable but resolved.

"Derek, look, I don't want to ask but..." He cut her off, his words quiet but unmistakable.

"It's your part."

"I know." she said, purposefully avoiding his gaze. He reached out and cupped her jaw in his hand, gently turning her head until she was looking directly at him.

"It was always your part." he assured her, releasing her from his grasp. She gave him a peculiar look.

"It shouldn't have been." she told him, with a clarity unique to her.

"I know." he replied hesitantly. If she had been anyone but herself, she wouldn't have stood a chance at the part and they both knew it. He'd cast her because she was Ivy. He could admit that now.

"I..." she started, her mouth opening and closing rapidly. Then she shook her head and got up, using the arm of the couch as leverage.

"I should go." she said. He nodded and got up with complete normalcy, as if it didn't bother him that she was running away.

"I'll call you a cab." He retreated to the kitchen, under the pretence of finding a telephone. He hadn't really been expecting her to react any other way, but the brush off hurt all the same. She was by the stairs when he got back, leaning against the wall and staring at the Bombshell poster. He walked over and stood beside her but she didn't speak to him.

It seemed cruel. Life asking them to continue on as if nothing had happened. He'd been stupid to think she'd ever be able to forget what he'd put her through. He'd been stupid to forget it himself.

Moving forward. Looking back. You couldn't do both.


End file.
